


Night Swimming

by luredin



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Erik Has Feelings, Erik’s POV, First Kiss, Gay Mutant Road Trip, Gay and Mutant in the 1960s, M/M, Skinny Dipping, Slow Burn, X-Men: First Class (2011)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-09-14
Packaged: 2019-03-31 22:23:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13984569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luredin/pseuds/luredin
Summary: On their way to recruiting Angel, Charles convinces Erik to stop for the night at a desert motel. The night is unseasonably warm, the stars are out, and maybe, just maybe, Erik will be able to let down his guard for a little while.(Or, just another stop on the gay mutant road trip tour told from Erik's point of view.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Brief warning for internalized homophobia. It's there, if you squint really hard, but it isn't the focus; after all, Erik internalized EVERYTHING in 1962.
> 
> Also brief mention of past violence. 
> 
> Un-beta'd. All mistakes are my own. Comments are love!

Charles turns the car into the parking lot, gravel crunching under the wheels. The front of the motel is deserted, save for the lone cactus growing near the main entrance and a Pontiac Bonneville parked at the end of a long row of rooms, a thick layer of dust and sand blanketing its once shiny chrome. Erik frowns. They are in the middle of nowhere, clearly. He isn't sure how long they've been driving. The sun is low on the horizon, and the sky is a dusky shade of blue streaked with varying degrees of pink and red. 

The landscape is striking, and Erik allows his thoughts to wander for a rare moment. 

He remembers a painting he once saw, in the home of a priest, in Croatia. This was in the early days, when he had first begun tracing the ratlines out of Spain and out of Rome--the lines that would eventually lead him to Argentina and one step closer to Schmidt. The painting was small, an afterthought, a watercolor sunset. Or maybe it was a sunrise. He had no doubt that the picture had been "appropriated" from Hitler's stockpile as payment for a criminal's freedom, but it wasn't significant enough for anyone to come looking for it. The artist would even now be long forgotten. How cheaply, then, the human soul could be bought.

The colors were vivid shades of vermillion and fuchsia, made even more dramatic by the muddied trails of blood-red that ran down its canvas, dripping from the point of the dagger piercing the sky. Erik was less efficient then, more rash, though he took no enjoyment from killing the priest. The painting would stay in his memory for years, reflected back to him as it is now in the dry American west. Erik feels a restless jolt course through him as his memories collide with his present. Charles points their car away from the motel, towards the empty, endless highway they had been traveling on, and begins to park.

"We should keep driving," Erik says quickly before Charles has a chance to key the ignition off. "To the nightclub."

"Erik," Charles replies with a hint of exhaustion in his voice. He cuts the engine before continuing. "The club is at least another forty-five minutes from here. And we don't even know if this Angel girl is working tonight."

"But if she is, we could be on the road by morning." He doesn't think he's being unreasonable. Of course he's tired, too, but he doesn't think this should stand in the way of their mission. The sooner they recruit the girl the sooner they can move on to the next, and the one after that, and so on. There will be plenty of time to rest once this is all over. Not for the first time Erik thinks that Charles' lack of urgency is a pretty serious character flaw. Not necessarily the first to come to mind, and not necessarily the worst, but probably the most irritating. The way he just moves about in the world with utter calm and limitless patience is beginning to get under his skin. 

"Just one night," Charles is saying quietly. He's looking straight ahead to the desert vista beyond the windshield and not at Erik. "I'm tired. I'm tired of crowded cities and rental cars and the constant cacophony of voices. Everywhere we've been--people all around us _thinking_ so...very...loudly."

Charles pauses and leans his head against the door frame, closing his eyes. Erik doesn't know what to say. He suddenly feels guilty, realizing he hasn't given much thought to how much of a toll this trip is taking on Charles--mentally. He never stopped to truly understand what Charles must go through every time he uses Cerebro--and then to have to zigzag across the country almost non-stop. They've barely had a moment alone since they'd agreed to this project.

"Shhhhhh," Charles' eyes are still closed but a small smile is playing across his lips. He tilts his head in Erik's direction. "Listen. Do you hear that?"

Erik is confused at first until he realizes that there is nothing to hear, and that's the point. The desert is quiet, perfectly still. He looks out across the landscape and watches as the sunset fades to twilight, and then the last streaks of blue are erased from the skyline, fading into darkness. Above them stars begin to dot the sky, tiny pin-pricks of light overhead, multiplying exponentially as each second ticks by. The transformation is shocking in its abruptness, but so beautiful that Erik stares, transfixed for several long breaths. 

When he turns his head to look back at the driver's seat, he finds Charles staring at him. He's still smiling but in his eyes there is a steely determination that wasn't there previously. His voice holds more gravity, too. "Just one night. And then, I promise you, we will resume our trek with more gusto than you can imagine, my friend. I promise you, we will not stop until it is all done."

Charles raises his hand and for a spilt-second Erik thinks he means to lay it atop his, resting on the seat in between them, but he doesn't. He only sets it down next to Erik's, close enough that their fingers brush briefly. Erik lets the weight of Charles' words sink in: _until it is all done_. He nods his acceptance and turns his gaze back to the evening sky, unwilling yet to move and disturb their silence. 

*****

The motel they are staying in is a dive. The CIA is definitely sparing expense, but Erik is not surprised. What does surprise him is that their _accommodations_ \--he grimaces at the word--are even being paid for at all. He and Charles are flying so far under the radar--and are pretty much expected to fail--he's shocked they aren't sleeping in their car most nights. However, once he's entered the motel with his and Charles' overnight bags in hand, the idea of sleeping in the car instantly seems preferable. 

The first thing he notices is the smell--stale cigarettes and beer. The lobby floor is covered in cracked linoleum, and the walls are sporting a decade old wallpaper, peeling at the baseboards. Everything is a putrid shade of green or brown, including the fake ficus propped against the far wall, a year's worth of dust accumulated on its plastic leaves. Erik can only imagine what sort of people come here. This is the kind of middle-of-nowhere place you come to when you don't want people asking questions. And by the looks the proprietor gives the two of them as they walk through the door, he's seen it all. Charles walks straight up to the man with a warm smile and a pleasant 'good evening' on his lips. The man, slight, hunched over, and probably a good ten years younger than he actually appears despite his sharp receding hair line, is unimpressed. Charles isn't deterred. 

Erik is amazed at Charles buoyancy, given their present surroundings and his words back in the car. He knows they are quite capable of staying at a much nicer place if Charles was so inclined. He knows Charles Xavier comes from a very wealthy background. He doesn't know precisely how much money; he doesn't need to know the exact dollar amounts to know the truth of it. He sees it in Charles' clothing and in the casual way he strides into a building, possessed with a superior confidence that Erik has yet to see waver. Everything about Charles Xavier, right down to that posh British accent of his, screams rich and entitled.

And yet, he isn't--isn't entitled that is. At least, he doesn't behave like he is. Erik is surprised to find that he doesn't begrudge Charles his money, the way he might other men. He decides that if Charles has no issue with their seedy locale then he is more than capable of surviving it as well. Comfort has never been high on Erik's list of priorities anyway. Comfort is a luxury sought by weak men, Erik thinks. And Erik is not a weak man.

Charles is negotiating the check-in process with ease, his accent and his ever-present charm obviously leaving the owner at a loss for words. Although, Erik suspects the man isn't much of a talker even on his best days. He appears to only be half-listening to Charles, as Charles neatly prints his and Erik's name in the ledger on the counter. Charles is going on about the arrangements for their bill etcetera etcetera but the man is staring at Erik with decided interest. He brings a hand up to scratch at the back of his neck, and Erik's eyes are drawn to the fraying, stained edge of the man's undershirt. The owner catches Erik's eye then, and his lips quirk at the corners in invitation. 

Erik tightens his grip on their bags and clears his throat. Charles looks up and over his shoulder at the sound, his words forgotten as his eyes light on Erik's clenched jaw. "Right then. Our key--" The owner drops the key into Charles' outstretched hand, and there is only one key, to one room, and that is different this time, Erik thinks. 

"And food. We were wondering--" The owner grunts and jerks a thumb over his shoulder towards the solitary vending machine. "Right then. We'll just settle in for the night and..."

Erik doesn't hear the rest of Charles' sentence because he's already turned and walked out of the building. The cooling night air feels like a much needed relief after the stuffiness of the lobby. Erik inhales deeply and begins walking towards room number twelve. He hears Charles exiting the doors behind him, following him down the concrete walk at his customary leisurely pace. Erik unclenches his jaw, then relaxes his shoulders, and slows his own pace just a little bit. It's an unconscious concession as the desert night unfolds around them.

Charles is only a step behind him when he reaches their room--and how strange it is to think of it as _theirs_. Charles quirks an eyebrow as soon as he notices that the door is slightly ajar. Erik shrugs.

“Habit," he says indifferently.

Charles chuckles faintly, and holds up their room key. "I guess we won't actually be needing this."

Erik doesn't reply; he merely lifts two fingers off the handle of his duffle bag and flicks them in the direction of their room. The door swings open with a creak of its hinges. He motions with his head for Charles to go in first. Charles looks at him curiously for a moment. "Lovely," is all he says, reaching out to take his bag from Erik's hand, their fingers brushing for the second time tonight. Erik tells himself that he is not counting. 

Whatever it is that Charles thinks is lovely, it certainly can't be this room. Erik isn't sure where to look first. At the hideous cactus-covered bed spreads (two twin beds; and that comes as a subconscious relief); or at the _velvet_ painting on the opposite wall, a landscape which is attempting to convey a bizarre mix of American West culture and the 1950s rock-and-roll era, more suited to a portrait of Elvis than those tall mountain plateaus. There is a small black and white television on a rolling cart sitting under the painting, and a writing table with one lone chair shoved into the far corner. Besides the single nightstand and dingy-shaded lamp sandwiched between the two beds there is nothing else to see. Erik is grateful for that. 

In the time it takes him to survey the room and its contents, Charles has already crossed its length, deposited his suitcase onto the far bed, flicked on the bathroom lights, and emerged cheerfully humming to himself and carrying a stack of semi-white bath towels. 

"Just toss that anywhere," he says, without looking up, and Erik assumes he means his bag. He's loathe to 'toss' it anywhere in this place, but he gingerly sets the green duffle down on the bed closest the door. Charles strides over to him and hands him one of the bath towels, before continuing past him. At the door he turns, smile wide. "Coming?" 

"Coming where?" Erik replies suspiciously. 

"To the pool. I thought we'd take a quick dip to unwind before bed."

"You're joking."

Charles looks momentarily perplexed. “No? Dwayne assures me that it's perfectly operational, and it's unseasonably warm this evening, so why not?"

Erik stares unblinking. He opens his mouth to reply, then closes it quickly. He's still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that Charles knows the proprietor's stupid name, when Charles turns his back aruptly and leaves Erik standing alone in their room, dumb-founded. 

Erik takes a few slow deep breaths feeling like he is quickly losing control of the evening. Charles Xavier is unquestionably the most ridiculous man he’s ever met. But Erik would be lying to himself if he said he wasn’t curious. Curious about Charles’ motivations. Curious about what was going on inside Charles’ very gifted mind. And, at this particular moment, curious—no, make that _concerned_ —about how Charles expects them to go swimming without any swim trunks. Shaking his head to himself, he follows in Charles’ footsteps out the door and down the walkway to the back of the motel. With a flick of his wrist the door to their room closes and locks behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

Erik hasn’t spent much time in desert climates. The temperature is cooler now than it has been all day, but still comfortably warm. It’s not humid and damp, like the air in South America. He thinks he likes the dryness. The shadows of mountains rise in the distance, and the empty, vastness of the space around them is refreshing—peaceful. The calm is a rare sensation for him, and his skin prickles a bit at the foreignness. A light breeze ghosts over his bare forearms, and he lets out a small sigh as he turns his gaze from the stars to the sight directly in front of him.

Charles has settled himself on the edge of a battered orange aluminum and plastic lounge chair, the towels he was carrying discarded on the side table. Erik halts his steps to watch as Charles bends over and begins neatly untying the shoelaces on his shiny Oxfords. His hair falls forward into his eyes, and he huffs a breath trying to dislodge it from his sight. His shoulders are rounded, his posture relaxed, and Erik feels a pang of envy pierce him. Charles removes his shoes and socks and stands up then, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. He stretches and arches his back, arms overhead and Erik realizes he’s just standing there, staring at him. Charles glances in his direction and shoots him a half-smile, as if he knows how intently Erik is watching him, as if everything about the past few minutes has been completely normal. But nothing has felt normal for Erik since the moment he met Charles Xavier. It’s disconcerting, to say the least, and it’s enough to jolt him into movement. He takes a few hesitant steps towards Charles then stops short again just as Charles fingers flit to the edge of his shirt.

“You’re not...” Erik begins to stammer, completely caught off guard.

Charles raises an eyebrow. “What? Skinny-dipping?”

Erik continues to stand there, staring at Charles. Absurd Charles. In the middle of the warm, dry desert, at a shady motel, next to a swimming pool that has clearly seen better days. How had he gotten here? He swallows down a rising fear. “You can’t.”

“But I am.” Charles laughs softly. “Join me?” He lifts his polo over his head and drops it causally onto the lounge chair revealing a freckled chest and softly sculpted muscles underneath. He doesn’t say anything else. Not with words. But the way he looks at Erik, carefully, with clearly undisguised interest, causes Erik to shiver again. He feels unbearably exposed, like a raw nerve vibrating in the night air. He’s never felt so wholly powerless before—never like this—and he’s actually rendered speechless when Charles turns abruptly and drops trou. Erik has just seconds to take in a glimpse of the pale round expanse of Charles backside before he dives in, disappearing under the water.

“Charles!” He hisses when he comes up for air. “What if someone catches you?” He doesn’t say _us_ , because _he’s_ not doing anything except further losing control of the situation, of this night. He should feel more angry than he does. He’s not angry. It’s not anger that’s making his fingers twitch at his side. Something else—frustration mixed with a deadly calm is building inside of him, a low growling warmth spreading to his limbs.

Charles mops his wet hair off his forehead and grins. “Who’s there to catch us? Dwayne? I can assure you that he is...wholly engaged...elsewhere.”

Erik grimaces.

“But even if someone else were to wander in...” Charles pauses to raise two fingers to his temple as if that explains everything. As if his fairly illegal and quite honestly scandalous behavior could be covered up and swept under the rug with just a few suggestive thoughts on his part. Except Erik knows that’s _exactly_ what would happen if someone else showed up.

His pulse quickens.

"Charles." Erik hopes to convey in his stern tone how absolutely foolish he thinks Charles is being. But his voice seems to have the opposite of his desired effect, because Charles stills in the water, facing him. He's barely moving but for the lazy kick of his legs underwater. He's looking straight at Erik, his lips parted ever so slightly and his eyes bright with moonlight, and when he says Erik's name in return it's neither a statement nor a question. Before Erik even realizes what he's doing, he's reaching up and pulling his polo and under shirt over his head. He bends down to pull his shoes and socks off, and then he straightens and begins to undo his belt. A strange mix of curiosity and adrenaline seems to propel his motions, involuntarily. He could stop. He should want to stop. But he doesn’t stop. Charles is floating before him, silent, his eyes never leaving Erik. But as Erik begins to push his trousers down Charles turns away and ducks under the water, giving him a modicum of privacy. Erik isn’t sure if he’s grateful for that. It’s an unnerving feeling, but he doesn’t dwell on it. In another few seconds, he’s naked and determined to see this—whatever this is—through.

He walks to the edge of the pool and dives into the spot that Charles just vacated. The water is warmer than he expected and clearer, too, than it looked from above. When he comes up for air Charles is on the opposite side of the pool, one hand resting lightly on the edge. Erik hesitates a moment, unsure of what exactly he's supposed to do, unsure of what exactly _they're_ doing. His body seems to have a mind of its own though. He kicks back and half swims to meet Charles in the shallow end of the pool.

The water is little more than a meter deep but Erik knows standing up would be a ridiculous thing to do, so he grips the edge of the pool and tucks his legs beneath himself, not quite kneeling, so that he's mirroring Charles. One of the fluorescent lights surrounding the pool crackles in the warm air and the sound produces an electric feeling inside of Erik. The air between their bodies seems unnaturally heavy. Erik remembers the last time they faced each other in water like this, and the memory is overwhelming. Panic begins to settle in. He feels as if he's suffocating with the anger and the rage and the confusion he'd felt then, so he tries desperately to tamp the memory down father, to push it away and wall it off in his mind. But something of his struggle must be showing on his face, because Charles' hand reaches towards his, until the tips of their fingers are touching on the damp concrete beside them. _Three_ , Erik automatically counts.

Charles’ eyes meet his. "What are you thinking, my friend?"

"You mean you have to ask?" Erik wonders at what kind of game Charles thinks he's playing, when he could so easily know his thoughts without Erik being any the wiser.

"I do." Charles almost looks hurt by Erik's thinly veiled accusation. He lifts his hand out of the water and waggles a few fingers near his temple. "I would never, not without without your permission. Not again."

For some reason, yet to be discovered, Erik believes him. He considers acquiescing and giving Charles his permission, but he stops short. There's something about this moment between them that feels too important; giving Charles access to his mind would be dangerous. Just knowing that Charles might be able to see everything, to know everything as he already claims he does, causes a skittering feeling to race down his spine. Erik’s past is his and his alone, and he would never willingly share the darkness that lay there with anyone else. At least, that’s what he’s always told himself. But now, in some distant part of his mind he thinks maybe, _maybe_ someday. He’s only known this man for a few weeks and yet something about just being in his presence, his open, bright, welcoming presence that is so foreign to Erik, makes him feel unfinished, undone in a disturbingly comforting way.

Charles has one eyebrow raised expectantly. Erik replies simply, "Too many thoughts."

"Then just one. One thought, that's all I'm asking for."

Erik studies Charles' face, really studies it. Even at night like this, bathed in the peculiar mixture of moonlight and artificial lamp light, his eyes are a brilliant blue. There are the faintest traces of wrinkles beginning to form at their corners. _Charles smiles too much_ , he thinks. His wet hair is clinging to his forehead, and Erik is surprised to find himself wanting to brush the wayward strands aside. His lips are full and smooth, aside from the water droplet that is resting tantalizingly on his lower lip. Overall Charles' expression is open and inviting, and Erik finds him at that very moment truly magnetic. 

"You're beautiful," Erik says.

As soon as the words are out of his mouth he instantly regrets them, not because they aren't true, but because they make him feel suddenly vulnerable. He doesn't like this feeling, like he is at Charles' mercy, like whatever Charles wants him to say or do, he will. He won't be able to stop himself. But Charles only laughs, and the sound is warm and genuine. Erik feels some of the tension he was unconsciously holding in his body dissipate into the water.

"Thank you," Charles says. "Not just for the compliment, though very lovely and appreciated. Thank you for sharing your thoughts with me."

Erik nods. He is hyper-aware of how close they are to each other, closer even than they were a mere minute ago. Charles' finger tips have brushed past his and are ghosting over his arm until his hand is resting gently on Erik's shoulder. Erik barely has time to register this fact because in the next instant he can feel Charles' breath close to his face, and Charles' lips are pressing against his. He wants desperately to react, to invite Charles into himself, but he is frozen, his mind reeling. Even though the last fifteen minutes have done nothing but lead them to this very thing, he is griped with a fear so strong he cannot react. This is too much, too soon. These _feelings_. And oh! Charles lips are so soft and so warm and so nice. And he wants this, desperately wants this but _oh_!

Charles pulls back and looks thoroughly defeated. "I'm sorr--"

"No!"

"What?"

"Just..." Erik wills his heartbeat to slow and takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry. Just...do that again."

Charles looks less than convinced, but he leans forward slowly, his lips brushing lightly against Erik's, and this time Erik doesn't panic. He leans forward and parts his lips. Charles tilts his head and brings his hand from Erik’s shoulder to the back of his head. He runs his fingers through Erik’s hair. Their kiss deepens, and Charles moans softly. Indecently. And Erik is both shocked and further aroused. They move closer together as if pulled by an invisible tide. 

Erik reaches out underwater feeling blindly for some part of Charles to latch onto. His hands find Charles’ chest, his abdomen, his arms. His fingers run restless across the smooth planes and solid form of Charles. Touching, touching, touching. Erik feels as if he were to somehow loses this contact he’d suddenly float away. This isn’t really happening, is it? Charles’ lips against his, and his tongue gently teasing, testing Erik. This feels surreal.

Charles takes his free hand under the surface and grabs at Erik’s. He threads their fingers together and squeezes tightly, and the gesture is just enough. _Just right_. It grounds Erik to the spot. He stills. Charles stills. They continue to kiss, though. Erik lets Charles control the pace because he can’t think clearly any longer. Charles keeps it slow, mercilessly slow and deliberate. He tastes Erik by degrees. His upper lip, his lower lip, the corner of his mouth. It’s maddeningly intimate. The tentative touch of tongues, and Charles pulling away ever so slightly to deliver a line of small, quiet kisses to Erik’s jawline, makes Erik gasp. Charles continues to thread his fingers through Erik’s hair and kiss the side of his neck—the barest press against the top of his shoulder—and then he pulls away to rest his forehead against Erik’s. Erik opens his eyes and meets Charles’ heated gaze. 

“Hello, there.” Charles whispers against his cheek.

Eric swallows and manages a stilted hello back. Charles straightens up some, letting the swiftly cooling night air rush between their bodies.

“Charles Xavier,” he says with a bit of a smirk and a raised eyebrow, as if he’s introducing himself for the first time.

“Erik Lehnsherr?” Erik says his name as if it’s a question. Like he’s not entirely sure who he is right now.

“Nice to finally meet you, Erik,” Charles returns. He doesn’t say anything else. He just looks. Stares really. The weight of his level gaze is intense and the sudden scrutiny Erik feels manages to clear the fog from his brain. He scrambles, quickly, to disengage his fingers from Charles’ and push himself farther away. Charles doesn’t resist. Instead he lets Erik’s fingers slip away with ease, and he leans back into the side of the pool, creating even more distance between them. Erik struggles to control a rising surge of unease. Moonlight and madness are threatening to swallow him whole; he doesn’t know where to look, what to say. He continues to tread water, and he waits. Charles— _Charles_ —has been in control from the very moment they stopped the car tonight. This realization empties Erik of the remnants of his fight or flight response. What else is there for him to do now?

He waits for Charles to make his next move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took so long to post this chapter, but good news? I've decided there's going to be one more. And I promise to update much sooner.
> 
> Thank you to those still hanging in there with me!


End file.
